


Beforus Club Sandwich

by RainofLittleFishes



Series: Beforus Club Sandwich [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Beforus, F/F, F/M, Gill!Kat is displeased, Grubs, Inflation, Kink Meme, Knotting, M/M, Messing with a troll’s right to not reproduce, Multi, Parenthood, Slice of Life According to Karkat, Stuffing, There’s just something about Karkat (and his butt), cross-quadrant shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 14:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2233203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainofLittleFishes/pseuds/RainofLittleFishes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Homesmut prompt: Feferi and Meenah can't help but instinctually want to violently eviscerate one another, but Karkat is an awfully effective buffer. Karkat is the really-not-very-concilliatory-at-all filling in an angry, spitting Seadweller club sandwich. (meme XX, page 87)</p><p>Fill: something along those lines, but mostly a slice-of-life according to Karkat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beforus Club Sandwich

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThePioden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePioden/gifts).



As far as you are concerned, tyrians are all pains in the nook. You have done an exhaustive study. You are auspistice to the only two tyrians in existence. You can say it with complete authority. One hundred percent of tyrians are irritating pains in the nook. Your nook to be precise. Where they’re both currently lodged by their not inconsiderable bulges.

“Did you have to knot me? Seriously? Both of you?” Why do you bother asking? Has it ever made a difference?

“Sea-riously as a riot, Crabsnatch!” This is Meenah, in all her adolescent punning glory, and she emphasizes it with a tiny hip bump that feels magnified by all the junk shoved up your junk. By glory, you mean jerkitude. She flexes her fingers and sets her claws back into the puncture wounds she’s installed on your hips, a matching set to the ones Feferi installed on your butt, as if they are physically incapable of _not_ clawing someone while in the same block.

“Sea-cause if one of us didn’t, the other would, and then we’d be j-eel-ous, Karcrab.” This is Feferi and she is both an adult and the Empress, so you don’t know why she has to pun at you.

Your Empress tugs a lock of your hair, just teasing enough to not verge into pale territory. Though at this point, when ash has repeatedly tumbled into the bucket horns over heels like Timmii minus his faithful barkbeast lusus, you’re not sure what the point is.

Even your kismesis seems to wobble his skinny butt into red territory more often than can be explained by his personal failings alone. And Terezi is the kind of moirail who looks at the traditional duties of protecting and improving you as sharpening you like a blade and feeling your butt up.

You are the steady planet in a solar system full of erratic orbits. You have a sinking suspicion that they’re all orbiting the gravitational well of your butt, and possibly that of your mortification and righteous anger.

Meenah decides to shove Feferi’s hand away in order to nibble at your not-in-the-least-frilly ears again and there’s a brief push fight at your periphery, hands but no claws, so at least some of your efforts tonight have been successful. You smack at them both, then suck your breath in so quickly they actually stop. Any motion makes the fullness inside you move and you’re so sensitive it’s more painful than pleasurable. The puncture wounds are clean pain, something your mind can grab and understand. The way they’ve stuffed you to, and edging past, capacity teeters between good, bad, and blackout.

Now Feferi really does take the quad chart and stomp on it, because she reclines back onto the hedonistic couch far enough that you’re pretty much forced to rest your head on her abundant rumblespheres.

The shift, especially as Meenah follows, puts more pressure on your abdomen, and is therefore even more unwelcome, but Feferi rubs at the pressure points along your skull and horns and you are possibly distracted by a pleasure that isn’t combined with discomfort.

Terezi is your lifeline, she straightens what’s crooked in you, and reshapes what’s too rigid, but she’s not, strictly speaking, big on plain papping, and, you guard the secret with your life ( ** _no one must know_** ), but you’re kind of easy in the pale quadrant.

Your bulge, previously enthusiastic, but now just evicted from its sheath by the pressure, sort of just oozes on Feferi’s torso with the occasional twitch. You can’t imagine how anyone could look at it and think, “Yes, I am going to track that poison red slug back to its origin and sex up the cavern from whence it crawled.” Tyrians are clearly shit-hive-maggots, though this is no surprise, just an entry on an exceedingly long list.

Feferi hums like she’s comforting a wriggler, nothing to see here, just totally violating my auspistice’s pale quadrant. On top of our ashenanigans which totally don’t violate **_that_** quadrant. You are so going to tell on her to Terezi and let the two of them duke it out, because you are exhausted with trying to manage the two tyrians into not murdering one another while managing Troll Resources for the entire Empire as Chief Threshecutioner.

Terezi won’t kill the Empress. Well, not much. Then again, your moirail would probably tell you that adversity builds character and maybe you should delegate more. Oinkbeastshit.

You have people to whom you delegate of course, but ultimately, everything has to cross your desk at some point, including, it seems, both royal tyrians and their asses. (You had had to demand three dozen people resubmit reports because someone’s butt, limbs, bulge, or freaky tentacle hair had managed to open your inbox and delete-delete-delete. Sollux had cracked a shame-nut laughing when he overheard one of the pissed re-submitters and tracked the whole thing back to see what happened.)

Meenah, for once, doesn’t take this as an opportunity to stir up trouble, and she rubs at your gill-less neck, down the top vertebrae and back up again to work at the muscles and tendons in your shoulders and neck. She strokes her thumbs down your useless opercula, gently pushing them shut only for them to pop back open as she lets go. You’re so full they won’t stay shut and the air feels dry and uncomfortable on your gratuitous gills, but that is nothing new. She keeps working at your neck and sides and you groan, because you almost always have a tension headache and their combined efforts actually seem to be helping, even if everything from your taint to your sternum is on fire.

Your nook aches, your abdomen is so full you feel more than a bit nauseous, and you know from the past half dozen times this happened that: one, you’ll have to wait at least a half hour more before you can even think of untangling, two, you’ll be a lot more full before they finish, three, right now you adamantly never want to have sex again but they’ll be ready next week and you’ll have changed your mind by next perigee, and four, you have a minimum of six hours of paperwork ahead of you so this is actually going to be the highpoint of your night.

You concede to allow them to comfort you while you’re knotted, justifying it as they’re just salvaging the mess they made. (Spoiler: the mess is you.)

You have a few vague thoughts that if anyone needs something from the Empress or her Heir in the next half an hour, this is going to be highly embarrassing, but heck, five perigees back Feferi offed an assassin while the three of you were knotted together and Meenah was actually something bordering on respectful to her for a whole two perigees. So maybe you can let someone else take care of things while you check out for a bit.

The thing is, as kinky as it is, Meenah and Feferi really do seem to get along better for at least a week after they cohabit your nook. Maybe you should just tie their bulges together and cap their talons. You certainly can’t sit on their laps all the time. Make a note: Must ask Kanaya about suitable materials for tying bulges together without permanent injury or escape. Maybe something in charcoal with a big bow. Possibly sparkly. No cuttlefish.

Meenah keeps trying to get you to slip into her whenever she gets your front side, but she clearly is made of seafoam and urchin spines because you know they always end up so far up your nook your throat hurts and, for you at least, it might be fun to reciprocate with one partner, but being knotted in from front and back and knotted back into the front partner turned borderline painful into outright **_hell no._** You had had cricks in your lower back for days and you’re pretty sure your bulge is still permanently kinked to the left. You look down to check. Yep. Definitely oozing leftwards.

If Meenah wants a bulge and a nook dancing attendance on her, maybe she should be the filling in this club sandwich. Maybe you’ll try that next time. You’ll tie them both up so they can’t scratch each other and you’ll let them tangle their bits with each other and leave your nook gloriously un-abused. You might even get some paperwork done in between lecturing them on the proper filling and filing of form 52Ax, “Workplace Harassment Resolution”, the version used for resolutions which result in no fatalities or permanent injuries.

You doze intermittently while trying to think of ways to ambush them into agreeing to let you tie them up and you wake up to snark in two distinct flavors, excessively cheerful and exceedingly sarcastic, and more uncomfortable jostling.

Wonder of wonders, the two of them cooperate and withdraw, which you grasp with both mental hands as a victory because while either of them could lift you just fine, even from below, it is a minor miracle that they’re cooperating.

Your internal digestion sack heaves and groans with the compression, even after it’s been relatively lightened by their withdrawal, and you might actually let that groan slip out. You slip a hand down to your belly and it feels like they snuck a third tyrian in, because you feel utterly massive. You bat them off and waddle-limp into the hygiene block. You may possible threaten them and toss a few things until they leave. Technically, this is Feferi’s block. Technically, you are clearly in more need of it than she is.

You spend two hours on the cold tile floor working to express their deposits and your own. Only ten minutes of that is spent verbalizing what you think of them. The rest are spent regretting your life choices. Troll Will Smith, why did you lead me so wrong? The Chief Threshecutioner’s job description _should not include this_.

The floor is cold and your nook aches and you have a crick in both wrists and your knees feel creaky and you are afraid that _you will never be continent again_. You will be the intimidating Threshecutioner in a diaper. It is you. You fill one of Feferi’s ridiculous pails, one of the ones with the cheerful cute cuttlefish and the caption “ ** _You can do it!_** ”.

It’s half again as large as a standard pail, and you only just manage to lock the lid on without spilling any slurry back out.

Afterward, you must have been more out of it than you thought, because in a fit of devil-may-care, you limped out dressed only in a basic combat uniform and only one sickle and you dropped the pail off at the drone station and _didn’t even bother to fill out the forms_.

You don’t know what quadrants to check anyways. What do you call an ash bucket? A cigar tray. No one dares stop the madman with the cuttlefish bucket. Then again, you were carrying your sickle in your other hand, and you usually keep them sheathed inside the palace.

You limp back to your block and delegate most of your paperwork. By which you mean you send it out to a few of the more intelligent of your lackeys with ridiculously short deadlines, then edit it as it comes back in, keeping a window open on a side screen to see what they’re calling you to their little friends for this emergency-urgent, completely unfair deadline, and who’s doing it before, during, or after.

Hmm. The skinny green girl you poached from the economic forecasting department for fleet budgeting and appropriations is actually pretty creative, without letting out with any details that she shouldn’t. You send Kanaya a link to her file and tell her that she can only poach her if Ms. Ufious actually wants to be poached.

You get back a :33 and don’t want to know why the Empress’s Special Tasks Mistress is responding to the Empress’s Chief Intelligence Officer’s messages if they’re in the middle of kismesis sexy time.

They’re probably playing chess or something while they drop hints about things the other doesn’t know. _You_ don’t want to know. You quit taking Kanaya up on her invitations to chess once you realized that she used the pieces in interrogations. Ugh. You don’t want to know which ones have been where.

Your forms and planning take you three hours instead of six plus and you’ve succeeded in making five other people have a night almost as bad as your own. You fall asleep on your desk and when you wake up, your nook is still on fire, there’s tyrian staining your pants, and your neck hurts again. You wish you moirail were here, and also, perhaps, occasionally helpful in a non-violent manner, because a neck rub would be really nice about now. You ignore such thoughts and limp into the hygiene block to get presentable before you go out to terrorize palace security with an unscheduled alarm drill.

*

You continue you merry-little-life-of-ignorance, attempting to manage Feferi to not do anything too naïve and attempting to teach Meenah to not do anything too selfish, and attempting to not entirely lose yourself in their terrible (sometimes flattering) continuing seductions, one of which was in the seadweller section of the castle, the only time you have _ever_ had a use for your gills, besides an excuse to see the mediculler for yet another infection or eczema attack. It’s creepy to be boned by people that glow in the dark, but still less dangerous then the time Meenah brought scented candles and tried to set Feferi’s hair on fire. The scent of cherry-lemon-lipid confections has been ruined for you. Ruined.

Almost a sweep later you get a present.

By present you mean unexpected surprise, and you do not like surprises.

It’s a grub. A red grub with your horns and a seadweller’s tail and little fins and gills, and the poor sucker, because that means it’s not fit for the jungles, plains, or seas, a lowblood just doesn’t have the insulation and circulatory system to go in past the shallows for long, and gills in the jungle tend to end in rotting from the inside out while the plains winters tend to dry them till they crack. How well you know it. It’s going to spend its life on land wearing shirts tight enough to help keep its opercula shut, on an endless quest to find an eczema cream that doesn’t burn, smell, or cause embarrassing spots.

Feferi is delighted despite the problematic nature of your delivery. When is she not?

Meenah is already teaching it bad words and phrases, like “antidisestablishmentarianism”, “motherfucking clown messiahs”, and “shun the disbeliever”, which it chants in between the rest of the usual squeaks, clicks, growls, and chirrs of new grubs.

Why are you not surprised? If it stuck to a few simple classics like “you shit-brained weevil deposit” or “you festering heap of concealed seagoat slurry” it would be no big deal, but she’s teaching it political parties, religious affiliations, and slurs, and it has no idea what it’s saying. It’s going to someone shanked, or possibly squished.

It is obsessed with your shoes, sleeping on your feet when you occupy them, sleeping in the empty shells when you don’t. It’s kind of horrendously cute, if by cute you mean mangling antidisestablishmentarianism while slobbering on jerky.

You have to check your shoes now before you put them on. It made a deposit in your parade boots. Not that you don’t feel that that about sums up their practicality, but your parade boots were white and now they’re white with pink and brown patches and gnaw marks. You’d toss them, but the grub has entered a territorial phase and if it’s to avoid being a spastic self-doubting layabout later in life, you figure it needs to have won a few rounds in the formative sweeps.

You mangle a bit of jerky between your molars, crushing the hard outer later before accidently dropping it on the floor where the grub pounces on it. You work through the rest of the stick with furiously therapeutic gnashing and drop it in sections on the floor. Ha. Take that, cleaning drones!

There’s one advantage to salvage from the whole fucking mess. The cleaning bots have been banned from your quarters until the grub’s first metamorphosis. There’s an urban legend that one ate a grub once, and now it’s conventionally taboo to allow them to mix. Even your kismesis and his perpetually perspiring matesprit don’t dare mess with this tradition.

No more bots messing with your piles or “tidying” up and losing all your stuff or moving files around from your computer access. Hallelujah to all the shitty clown deities and to the deities not in manky mime makeup.

You can hear Sollux huffing in frustration without leaving your block. Your kismesis is likely venting his frustration so loudly he whistles like a leaf tincture brewing device and Equius is likely attempting to console him while sweating about the impropriety of messing with imperial business and worrying about where red would bridge into pale. Ah, the sweet sound of a jerk failing to mess you up.

The grub, now dubbed Kankri, because Feferi is Empress and she vetoed it when Meenah and you both voted for CankerSore, cheeps at you because it wants to be picked up. At least you think that’s what it wants, it still really sucks at sentences.

You lift it by the nape of its neck to give it a quick inspection before you settle it on your lap. It’s little grub legs flail in the air and it snaps and fans its tail, but it passes inspection and got what it wanted so you don’t know what its issue is. You are a big (false) tough (true) Threshecutioner and you’ve had worse than piss and shit on your uniform, but that doesn’t mean you like it. The grub squeaks as it lands in your lap and you set to work getting all the tangles out of its hair. You could clip it short, you suppose, but then you wouldn’t get the entertainment value of watching people unsure if they’re addressing its head or its butt when it has its tail curled under. Once it goes through its metamorphosis that game is over, so you’re savoring it while you can.

*

You’ve been shamefully negligent of your kismesis and after he sends you, via no less than ten intermediaries, on a wild heart-stopping honk-beast chase over the entire city over one lost red grub, that wasn’t lost so much as _borrowed by your kismesis_ , you decide to return the favor of his attention.

Your kismesissitude with Sollux is strongly emotional but you both actually kind of suck at sticking in one quadrant. You can’t help but try to fix people, he’s not very good at hurting people he knows, and you’re red enough to set off his duality color kink. You suspect that the only reason you haven’t been chivvied into a threesome with Equius is that Equius would not take it well. Eh, your schedule’s pretty full.

The problem with two vocationalist matesprits shacking up together is that they tend to forget the practical details. So you sneak in one day while they’re both working late in their labs and you leave a kickass catered dinner and a note from “Feferi” and you sneak back out with a cuttlefish embellished pail. Perverts. You can’t believe they filled one with just the two of them. No, actually, you can.

Sollux laughs at your terrible coding but you keep just enough back that he doesn’t seem to have caught on yet that you actually _can_ loop a security camera.

You drop the pail off at the drone station and helpfully fill out the forms. You sign Sollux’s name with a flourish of Feferi’s best pen and an extra two smiley faces. You’re keeping the pen. She has no appreciation for a good pen.

Almost a sweep later your revenge is sweet indeed when the drones drop off Horuss.

Your kismesis is too tired to bother you for six perigees. You’re sure that Equius got some work done during that time, but every time you saw him, he was standing stock still and wide-eyed with his arms in the air like he was terrified to move. They keep their block such a mess that the grub could have been anywhere, and Equius is a stodgy rule follower who will obviously be educating Horuss on a “proper” blue’s duties, but he’s also a softhearted pushover, and for all his obsession with rules, he’s never once turned someone in need away. There’s absolutely no way he’d ever do anything to endanger their grub.

You feel a little bad that Horuss’s arrival has caused him such stress, but it’s also sent Sollux into a whirlwind of research over grub development and hilarious tizzy of concern and you don’t feel bad enough to help. And you think that Sollux may have actually gotten the message that he’s **_NOT TO MESS WITH YOUR WRIGGLER_**.

Horuss is loud enough that they actually remember to eat and bathe and sleep on a fairly regular basis, something no number of systems, apps, or robots have managed. You are the most efficient kismesis in the history of ever. (You are actually a quadrant crossing deviant, and your own worst enemy, but Terezi high-fived you and Nepeta hugged you without stabbing you, so you’re counting that as three votes for your utter awe-inspiring win.)

*

Perigees later…

*

Due to Kanaya’s sensible planning eight sweeps past, when she took care of the necessity of an heir a few sweeps after Feferi, you have a readymade wriggler wrangler in Porrim.

Porrim is seven sweeps now, aggressively intelligent, but still young enough that she idolizes Meenah and listens to sad songs about no one understanding. Porrim likes you, and Kankri, for some reason beyond your understanding, but with such formidable parentage as Kanaya and Nepeta, you’re not doing anything to deliberately spite her. You’re not above bribing her, and, apparently, obtaining Aradia’s newest single a full perigee ahead of its official release is enough to get you a full day of spawn-sitting for both Kankri and Horuss.

You’re dozing in Sollux’s ‘coon late that day, the both of you wiped from a combination of work, stress, and the first real knock-down, drag out kismesis fight and following sexy times that either of you have managed since Horuss was delivered.

Equius is away on business and you are nursing the shoulder that was dislocated and reintroduced along with the better aches of bites, scratches, and a few tickle-stretches of psionic burns. You’ve hung your arms over the coon sides and Sollux has spooned up behind you, occasionally fingering your opercula, the opportunistic freak, and you’re both pretty much completely asleep when a current of air moves where it shouldn’t and you snap awake in time to see Nepeta spirit away your spade bucket (this one designed by Meenah for mass free distribution and decorated with a disturbing quackbeast with a frowny face, “Let’s get Quacking!”).

The two of you surge out of the coon and only succeed in dripping sopor all over the empty corridor. Anyhow, you might be good enough to catch a glimpse despite her, but there’s no way you can catch up now and you might as well salvage what you can, that vanishingly precious commodity, sleep. Nepeta is Equius’s moirail and she thinks that Horuss is the cutest thing ever. So you’re not sure why she’s mad enough at one or both of you to try to instigate a grub.

Almost a sweep later, Sollux and you find yourselves summoned to the throne room to take a delivery from the drones. Meenah names him Mituna. His four horns are already so long he galumphs about with his head down bumping into things. Maybe he’ll grow into them? Poor sucker, a sparky psionic with gills. How does that even work?


End file.
